David Baldacci - Deliver Us From Evil

“We can’t just let this guy…”

“What? Have his way with her?” Frank chuckled. “Geez, you’re a piece of work.”

Shaw sat on his bed and rubbed his thumb against his index finger so hard it made a squeaking sound. “He could kill her. Or kidnap her and make her a prostitute.”

“Yeah, right. He kills or snatches a wealthy young American staying in the place next to his just so the police will come and investigate? I don’t think so. And why would he do that when he can get as many fourteen-year-old orphans from Asia as he needs for his business? The guy’s on holiday. He finds out there’s a good-looking chick next door that swims in the nude. He probably just wants to get laid.”

“And that’s okay with you?”

“It’s none of my business. Do you see it differently?”

Shaw hesitated. He wasn’t exactly sure how he saw it. No, maybe he did, but was afraid to voice it, at least to Frank.

“What if she screws up the op?”

“How so?”

“I don’t know. But how about we just pull the plug on the whole thing?”

“Are you nuts?” barked Frank. “We don’t get him this time, he might not surface again until London or New York goes boom with a mushroom-cloud chaser. Now focus on the op, Shaw, and cut this other crap out.”

Shaw put down the phone and let out a small groan. After this was over he was never, ever coming back to France.

REGGIE BENT LOW to snap a picture of a bee on a stalk of lavender. She rose, slipped the camera in the back pocket of her white jeans, and walked toward the Abbaye de Sénanque. Founded by Cistercian monks in the twelfth century, it was located about thirty kilometers from Gordes along a winding drive through the mountains on roads that were ostensibly two lanes but practically only had room for one car.

She walked toward the ancient building where for centuries men had come to learn the intricacies of their faith. Now it housed a chapel, a bookstore and gift shop, and other event space. Monks still lived there and produced a variety of items for sale, including honey and liqueurs. The grounds were covered in the lavender fields for which Provence was known, although Reggie had passed equally impressive swaths of sunflowers on her way here. However, she had not come for the horticultural aspects of the abbey. She was here for a meeting. She’d chosen this rendezvous spot chiefly because it would have been impossible for anyone to follow her here. One-lane death traps did that for you.

She strolled along with a tour group, breaking off toward the gift shop when they veered into the chapel. The room was warm and a single fan puttered overhead, managing only to move pockets of warm, stale air from one place to another. A machine in the small foyer sold both Cokes and cappuccino. She headed to the section of the shop housing large picture books on Provence, many of which of course had lavender fields on the cover.

As she stood browsing a book on the abbey’s history, her cell phone buzzed. She checked the text message. It read, “six o’clock.” She put the book down, picked up another, and turned casually around.

Whit was standing behind her checking out a small wooden carving of the abbey building you could purchase for fifteen euros. He wore a baseball cap, shades, raggedy jeans, a week’s worth of beard, and had his iPod ear buds in. He put the book back and strolled outside. She waited a minute and then followed after buying the book she’d been looking at.

She saw him standing over by a low stone wall that stretched in front of the building. He was holding his camera and looking through the lens. He glanced up and saw her.

“Would you mind taking my picture in front of the abbey?” he asked.

She smiled. “Only if you’ll do the same for me.”

They alternated taking shots of the other and then strolled along together.

“Any results on my friend Bill?” she said in a low voice.

“Negative. No hits on prints. And we scored a zero on his picture too. He must be a good little boy. His full name, by the way, is William A. Young.”

“What does the A stand for?”

“We could never find that out.”

“Do you think he’ll realize you two went through his room?”

“We were very thorough in putting everything back exactly. His passport is American, the address checked out. There are lots of lobbyists named William Young registered in America. We can’t crank through them all in the time we have. Probably a waste anyway. I don’t see any dirt there.”

“Or his back cover could be as good as mine.”

“Or the bloke could be who he says he is, Reg.”

“He scaled a wall and then disarmed me. A lobbyist?”

Whit looked troubled by this. “Well, he is a big guy. But I guess I see your point. So what do you want to do?”

“I’m not sure. What does the professor think?”

“The brilliant one has deferred to your expertise in the field.”

“Great. So what do you think?”

“I reckon we have to nail Kuchin and changing plans willy-nilly now based on flimsy intelligence could screw everything up. So we go with the original plan and if something solid does come up, we work around it.”

“How’s Dom?”

“Fired up and ready to go. So what’re your first impressions of old Fedir?”

“The same as my original ones. He fills up every bit of space he’s in and then some.”

He glanced at her skeptically. “Not getting swept off your feet, are you?”

“With the monster? Hardly.”

“Actually I’m not talking about Kuchin.”

She gave him a hard stare.

Whit grinned maliciously. “Tall, mysterious, and the scaler of walls?”

“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that,” she answered coldly.

“I’m not trying to tell you what to do-”

“Then don’t, Whit.”

“Just watch yourself.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She gave him a sideways glance. “Did you really paint a swastika on a target’s forehead using his blood after shooting him in the balls?”

“What can I say? I’m an artiste.”

“Right. I’m heading back.”

“So dinner with our Ukrainian friend tonight?”

“Yes.”

“I wonder if tall and mysterious will be hovering.”

“It’s a small village.”

“Well, just don’t get yourself in the middle of a ménage à trois. They can be messy. And before you ask, yes, I speak from experience.”

“Whit, I don’t know how I tolerate you some days.”

“It’s bound to be my charm.”

“How do you know you even have any?”

He looked offended by the question. “Jesus, woman, I’m Irish. It’s in our DNA.”

REGGIE HAD INSISTED that they eat at one of the restaurants in Gordes instead of at his villa, and Waller had finally relented.

“You are tenacious,” he had said in a mildly scolding tone.

“No, I’m just exercising common sense. I don’t really know you. And my parents wouldn’t have wanted me to go unescorted to your house, even just for dinner.”

“Wise people, your parents.”

“They were, yes.”

“I see. I am sorry.”

“So am I,” Reggie had said firmly.

They had walked up together to the village and taken a table outside that was wrapped by a three-foot-high wrought iron fence. As usual, Waller’s men hovered at a nearby table. However, Pascal was not part of the security team tonight.

“Do they always go where you go?” Reggie asked as she observed the armed men.

“One of the prices that must be paid for success,” Waller said, spreading his arms in mock helplessness. He was dressed in a blue blazer with a white pocket kerchief, khaki slacks, white silk shirt, and royal blue deck shoes that showed his bare pale ankles. The air had not yet cooled from the day’s heat and there was a line of perspiration across his brow. She was sure there would be curves of sweat under his armpits too. Reggie had opted for a pale blue skort, yellow blouse, and white sandals, with a matching yellow scarf around her hair. There was no sweat on her face.